


Moments from Watford Bakery

by sconelover



Series: Heroverse [4]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: A Love Letter to Baking, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Bakery AU, Bread, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Ebb Owns a Bakery, Fluffy Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, I made sour cherry scones the other day and connected with Simon Snow on a spiritual level, I'm so obsessed with baking, I'm so passionate about scones, Just pure self-indulgent baking fluff, M/M, Really really bad bread puns, Reporter!Shep makes an appearance, Scones, Simon & Trixie, Simon is a Baker, Some of this might be a literal recipe book, Sour Cherry Scones (Simon Snow), Superhero jokes at poor Simon's expense, This is like fanfiction of my fanfiction, Watford Bakery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23763904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover
Summary: Expansion on the Bakery AU that you didn't ask for, but definitely got, in Holding Out For A Hero. There are scones, and bread, and muffins, and croissants, and pies, and... well, you get the idea. It's basically a love letter to baking, and bakeries, and it's cozy and warm and self-indulgent. (There's also flirting, don't worry.)Presenting a series of ficlets taking place during Simon's time at the bakery -- before, during, and after the events of Holding Out For a Hero. Technically a companion piece, but you don't have to read that to enjoy this one!1: Cherries & Kafka (pre-HFH, How Simon got the scones recipe)2: Another One Bites the Crust (pre-HFH, Simon vs. a press interview)3: Quiche (post-HFH, Baz eats quiche)4: Handcuffs scene (during HFH, missing scene)
Relationships: Keris/Trixie (Simon Snow), Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Heroverse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713400
Comments: 29
Kudos: 143





	1. Cherries & Kafka

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! If you read Holding Out For a Hero, you probably realised that I have an obsession with baking. I started writing way too many bakery scenes for what was supposed to be a side plot in a Superhero AU fic, so I decided to put them all here. No set schedule for updating, but I'll post what I have so far and write more when that's finished!
> 
> Will feature: deleted scenes from Holding Out, uni-era stuff (yes, Simon as the morning baker), Nicodemus the Sourdough Starter having more cameos, the weirdly well-developed friendship between Simon and Trixie (I didn't plan that at ALL), Ebb being the lesbian mom we all want and need, plenty of flirting over croissants, bisexual panic, and fluffy, fluffy, fluffy post-Holding Out scenes.
> 
> Also, I'm a baker myself (could you guess?) and will be posting some of the recipes mentioned as I go!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penelope: "You don’t understand. He would stab someone for these scones. That’s actually not an exaggeration."  
> //  
> or  
> //  
> How Simon got the sour cherry scones recipe.🍒
> 
> Find [my sour cherry scones recipe on Tumblr,](https://scone-lover.tumblr.com/post/617953175234822144/sour-cherry-scones) including photos and a step by step guide! The recipe is also pasted at the end of this chapter.

I love Watford Uni for a lot of reasons. It’s where I met Penny, for one thing—we sat next to each other in our first lecture. (She sat at the front because she actually cares. I sat at the front because I got there late and it was the only seat left.) 

I love the way the Great Lawn shines green and golden in the summer; the way the leaves settle on it in autumn; the huge snowdrifts that sometimes pile up there in the winter; the white blossoms that float across it in the spring.

I love going to football games. Baz Pitch is the best player on the team. We had a class together first year, and the few times we interacted he was an arrogant prick. Always made fun of me for my grammar errors. But he’s good at football, so I respect him. (Sometimes. Grudgingly.) 

I even love class, sometimes—I’m actually in useful classes, the kind that teach you how to do your taxes. And I absolutely love work. I started working at Watford Bakery my first year, and even though I have to wake up at three in the morning, I almost always look forward to it.

But most of all, I love the sour cherry scones at Pritchard’s Cafe.

It’s just around the corner from my building. (I live in campus housing—I’m on scholarship, and it was included.) I stop in nearly every afternoon and inhale a few scones on my way to class.

I’d never had a scone with cherries in it before. I asked Cook Pritchard once, about the sour cherries. She said they bought boxes and boxes of them when they were in season—just two weeks out of the year. They’d pit and freeze enough to last until next season.

I could rhapsodize about those scones. They’re light and dense all at once, flaky around the edges, just a bit salty. I always buy one, but if Cook Pritchard is working she always gives me two.

God I love those scones.

I just wish I’d realised that Friday’s scone was my last one. Ever.

I would have bought the shop’s entire supply.

On Monday I was about to walk in for my morning scone(s), when I saw a sign across the door. _CLOSED._ Not the regular sign, either, the one that flips from Open to Closed. This one covered the entire glass.

On Tuesday, the windows were boarded up.

By Wednesday, the jauntily tilted sign that said “Pritchard’s Cafe” was scrubbed blank.

* * *

It’s Thursday, and I think I’m having scone withdrawals. Can you get addicted to scones?

Penny would say yes. She’d say I’m the world’s first scone addict.

But I can’t help it. And I can’t stop thinking about them.

At work, after I finish making the breads for the day, I decide to try my hand at making scones. I gather flour, butter, heavy cream, and eggs. I don’t have sour cherries, so I’ll just make plain ones today and see if I can get the texture right, at least. (We have raisins, but there’s no way I’m putting those in.)

I look up a few recipes online and start to jot down similarities. I do this whenever I’m trying out a new recipe, to see what works for multiple people and what doesn’t. I decide to try a small batch and use butter in them. Some traditional English scones use only cream, but Pritchard’s are a little denser than teatime scones, I think.

I measure everything out and even cut the butter in by hand instead of using the food processor. But when they’re baked, they don’t taste right. Something’s off, but I can’t place it.

I’ll experiment again tomorrow.

After a full week of experimenting with scones, I’m about to give up. I looked up Pritchard’s Cafe on the internet and tried to call them, but it didn’t connect.

Penny’s sitting on my bed, eating one of the reject scones. I bought some dried sour cherries and baked them in, but it’s not the same. “I don’t see the problem,” she says. “I don’t even like scones, and this is good.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s _good._ But it’s not Pritchard’s. I just can’t get it right!”

“Have you tried contacting Cook Pritchard herself?” Penny suggests. “She loved you, you were her best customer. Maybe she’d give you the recipe.”

I shrug. “I called their number, but I don’t have anything else.”

I must look dejected, because Penny cuffs me on the shoulder. “Hey. I’ll ask around, alright? It’s a local business, maybe someone knows her.”

I turn over a reject scone in my palm, considering if it’s even worth eating. It’s not, but I take a depressed bite anyway. “Thanks.”

* * *

**World Lit Study Group**

**Penelope [15:41]**

Hi all! Quick question: does anyone know Cook Pritchard?  
From Pritchard’s Cafe? They just shut down and my  
friend really wants their sour cherry scone recipe.

**Gareth**

Nah sorry

**Elspeth**

No, sorry, Penny. I’ll ask around and let you know if I hear anything.

**Philippa**

Nope

**Penelope**

Okay thanks anyways. Anyone else?

**Dev**

Never been to Pritchard’s but it rings a bell

**Dev**

Hold on

**Dev**

Baz where are you

**Dev**

Basilton

**Dev**

Bazzy Boy

**Baz**

Dev I beg of you, stop.

**Dev**

Ha it worked

**Baz**

What do you want?

**Dev**

Isn’t Pritchard your cousin

**Baz**

Yes.

**Dev**

…

**Dev**

Read the chat mate

**Baz**

I try to avoid that.

**Baz**

Oh, I see.

**Penelope**

OH this is perfect!!!

I’ll text you

* * *

**Penelope [16:02]**

Baz, could you get the recipe from Cook Pritchard?

Please?

**Baz**

Is your friend that desperate?

**Penelope**

He is seriously depressed because he doesn’t have these scones

He’s been moping for a week

Please help

**Baz**

That’s quite pathetic.

Well, I haven’t talked to her in a while.

**Penelope**

Basil

**Baz**

Penelope.

**Penelope**

He’s driving me crazy

Please

**Baz**

It’s a lot of trouble.

**Penelope**

… I’ll do your Kafka reflection

**Baz**

Really?

For scones?

**Penelope**

You don’t understand

He would stab someone for these scones

That’s actually not an exaggeration

**Baz**

Alright. I’ll ask.

\--

**Baz [19:27]**

Mission accomplished.

**_[image attached]_ **

**Penelope**

Thank you :)

**Baz**

You’re welcome.

Don’t forget about the reflection.

**Penelope**

Wouldn’t dream of it

Worth it, honestly. Simon’s dancing around the kitchen

**Baz**

Simon? As in Simon Snow?

**Penelope**

Who else? I have 2½ friends including you

Do you know each other?

**Baz**

Not really.

We had first year English together.

He comes to the football games. Even in the rain.

**Penelope**

Yeah I fucking know he drags me along

It’s miserable and muddy for the record

**Baz**

And you’re friends with him why?

I told Pritchard it was Simon and she said to give him her  
number in case he has more questions. Here.

_[Contact Attached]_

What does he need the recipe for, anyway?

**Penelope**

He works at Watford Bakery!

Their stuff is quite good, you should come by sometime

**Baz**

_[read 19:42]_

* * *

**Simon**

I’m too excited to wait until I get home; I call Penny right away.

“Brilliant,” I say. “Dead brilliant.”

Except it comes out more like “bwrgha, da bwrgha,” because my mouth is full of scone.

Penny sighs. “Chew,” she counsels. “Swallow.”

I do, and then I excitedly say, “They’re perfect. Exact. _How?”_

I’m in the kitchen at the bakery, it’s seven in the morning, and the scones are out of the oven just in time for opening. 

I never thought I’d taste them again. These tiny pieces of heaven. These triangles could be made out of actual gold and they’d be worth less than this to me.

I knew as soon as I saw the recipe that my ratios had been completely wrong. I had too many eggs, not enough butter, and too much cream and sugar. From the moment I dipped my spatula in the dough, I felt it in my bones: this was it.

“A friend of mine knows Cook Pritchard,” she says.

“Who?”

I’m basically ready to fall at that person’s feet. Let it be known that Simon Snow will worship at the altar of scones. 

“Just someone in my lit class.”

“Do I know them?” I take another huge bite of scone. It’s warm, and I close my eyes in pleasure. “I just want to thank them.”

The scone has a lovely almost-crispy exterior, the trick being to brush the tops with a layer of cream. I’d been using an egg wash on my previous batches; it looked prettier, but this tastes better—it’s like the cream has seeped in, adding to the texture.

All I need now is a supply of fresh sour cherries.

“I already did, on your behalf.”

I reach for another scone. I don’t know why she won’t just tell me. “Seriously Pen, who is it?”

She sighs heavily. “Baz Pitch? You know who he is, right?”

I drop the scone, then immediately scramble to pick it up. Five-second rule. _“Baz?_ Are you serious?”

The bell on the door tinkles. I should go.

“Yeah. Pritchard’s his cousin.”

“Does he know it was for me?”

Penny coughs. “He knows now… after I got the recipe.”

I laugh. “Jesus. What did you have to do to get Baz to do something _nice_ for you? Sell your soul to Satan?”

“Something like that.”

I shift uncomfortably. If I try to thank Baz I have no doubt he’ll find some way to turn it into an insult. _You used the wrong “your,”_ that kind of thing. 

“Well,” I say. “Tell him thanks again, I guess. They’re really good. Come try one today, yeah?”

“If there are any left,” she says, laughing. 

After she hangs up I regard the scones again. Baz’s sneering face clogs up my mind’s eye. _Can’t believe how pathetically obsessed you are with scones, Snow._ It’s something he’d say. (It’s true.) I shove the image aside. Even Baz can’t ruin these.

They’re perfect.

I set a few more aside for myself, then take the tray and head out to the bakery. 

* * *

**Cook Pritchard’s Sour Cherry Scones**

Makes: 6 scones

Ingredients

  * 1 ¼ cups all-purpose flour
  * ¼ cup sugar
  * ¼ to ½ teaspoon salt
  * ¼ teaspoon vanilla extract
  * 1 teaspoon baking powder
  * ¼ teaspoon baking soda
  * 4 tablespoons salted butter, cold
  * ⅓ cup cold heavy cream, plus extra for brushing
  * 1 egg yolk
  * ¼ cup dried sour/tart cherries



Directions

  1. Preheat the oven to 400ºF (205ºC).
  2. In a bowl, stir together the flour, sugar, salt, baking soda, and baking powder.
  3. Cut the butter into squares and add it to the flour mixture. Work the butter into the flour mixture using a pastry cutter, forks or knives, or your hands. It should be evenly distributed in pieces the size of peas.
  4. Add the sour cherries and mix. (You can also do this after adding the wet ingredients for a better sense of how many cherries you want.)
  5. Whisk together the egg yolk and heavy cream in a separate bowl. Pour it into the dry ingredients and incorporate using a spatula.
  6. Place the dough on a lightly floured surface and shape it into a circle about an inch thick. Cut the scones into circle shapes or triangles.
  7. Place the scones on a baking sheet (optional lined with parchment paper). Brush the top of each piece with heavy cream.
  8. Bake for 13-15 minutes, until the scones are golden brown on the edges and a toothpick comes out clean.



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full recipe with photos and tutorial here:  
>  SOUR CHERRY SCONES
> 
> Thanks [fox_diaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fox_diaz/pseuds/fox_diaz) and [okay_pretender ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/okay_pretender/pseuds/okay_pretender)for the beta reads!


	2. Another One Bites the Crust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watford Bakery’s gotten national recognition, and The Golden Blade will have to face one of his most daunting foes yet... a press interview. Enter Shepard, a reporter on a mission, armed with terrible puns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [ashspren,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashspren) [coolcoolcool_nodoubt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coolcoolcool_nodoubt/pseuds/Coolcoolcool_nodoubt) and [Selkie](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/subpar-selkie) for beta reading!

When I get to the bakery in the morning, Trixie is making the largest batch of dough I’ve ever seen; she’s up to her elbows in butter. Every single one of our pie tins is lined up on the long table in the middle of the kitchen. I step up to the counter where she’s working just as she tips an overwhelming amount of dough out of her bowl.

“Hi, uh, what is happening?”

She frantically gathers the huge blob of dough into a circle. She doesn’t even look up at me. “It’s Friday Pie Day, Simon!”

It is, but that doesn’t explain the pile of flour the size of a small child.

“I know it’s Friday Pie Day, but… why are you making so much?”

She takes a bench scraper and starts to divide the monstrous dough into smaller pieces. “Didn’t you see the news?” she asks a bit breathlessly.

“No, what happened?” 

I pull out my phone and search up  _ Watford Bakery. _

“Remember that food blogger who came in a couple months ago?”

“Barely.” A girl with a professional camera and big teeth sat in the corner all day, taking pictures, scribbling notes, and trying to interview me during my breaks. She must have ordered half the items on the menu.

“So it turns out she started working at BBC Good Food Magazine,” Trixie continues.

“No. Way.” My phone loads, and I gape at the screen. There must be ten articles from today alone. A photo I’ve never seen of the bakery with me, Ebb, and Trixie posed in the doorway in our purple Watford aprons is splashed across the news.

She grins at me widely. “We’ve just been given a national review—and it’s stellar.”

I find the original article and scroll through it. It has reviews of items on our menu and a whole section on the welcoming atmosphere and staff. There are some good candids of me working, edited professionally to look all warm and bright. There’s flour on my cheek, but I don’t mind—it’s realistic. 

“This is amazing.” 

“It’s amazing, alright,” Trixie says, rolling the dough at warp speed, “but it also means that we’re going to be  _ bombarded _ today.”

“Right. Fuck.” I hurry to tie on my apron, my stomach already churning at the idea of a line wrapping around the block. “Can you work overtime?”

“Sure. Start the coffee machine, will you?”

I do, and then I roll up my sleeves. Trixie kicks a bag of flour at me. “Hot water crust for you,” she says.

“Not this again–”

“Just today. They need to be  _ perfect.” _

I’m not proud of my hot hands (practically a shame for a baker), and I help with the pies anyway on most days, but Trixie’s right. We’ll have food critics and reviewers and bloggers and reporters flowing in today; we can’t afford to have dense or mushy pie crusts.

“Did you call Ebb?” I ask.

“Yeah. She’s going to come in at seven and help.”

“I’m sure someone will want to interview her, too.”

Trixie looks up from where she’s laying the pie crusts into their tins, one by one. “She’s not the best at public speaking.”

“Neither am I. You’re the only one.”

She fake-sighs. “I am the backbone of this institution.”

She crosses to the fridge to get the fillings—bowls and bowls of berries and apples macerating in sugar or lemon juice—and I notice for the first time that she’s dressed up. She’s wearing a tank top that shows off the colourful tattoos of vines and flowers she has curling down the insides of her arms, her hair is done with little barrettes or whatever they’re called, and she’s wearing makeup. Which means she knew about this, and didn’t even text me. 

“You look nice. You could have said something before I got here,” I say.

“You’re a guy. You look the same every day.”

“I would have gotten a haircut or something. Or at least slept more.”

“Simon,” she says, “I woke up at three this morning. Don’t talk to me about sleeping.”

“You wake up at three  _ every  _ morning.”

She laughs. “Touché.”

I pull out my phone to make sure I don’t look completely horrible.

“Get going on the pies. Shepherd’s and curry chicken today.” Trixie points to the stove. “Meats are over there.”

“Where’s the spreadsheet?”

She rolls her eyes but slides my laminated spreadsheet across the table. It’s a table calculating the stock we need based on expected customers and demand for the day. She’s circled the highest demand with a whiteboard marker, starring the corresponding amount of pies we’ll need to make.

It was Penny’s idea originally, and to absolutely no one’s surprise, the system works very well for us.

Trixie puts on obnoxiously upbeat music—she claims it helps her bake faster—and I get to work assembling the pies. After I’ve slid a huge tray of them into the oven, I clean up my area and ask, “Anything else?”

I glance at the clock. It’s already 6:45, but we can bake through the morning. Usually no one wants pies before lunchtime. Then again, it’s not a usual day.

“Maybe we should stock some of the normal things, too,” I say. “If people are coming from far and wide…”

Trixie turns around from where she’s arranging apple slices in a circle and fixes me with a serious look. “Then you know what to do.”

Of course I do. If people are going to come to Watford Bakery for the first time, we might as well show off our very best baked goods.

I start pulling out the ingredients for scones.

“Flavours?” I ask, scanning the pantry.

“Sour cherry,” she says, ticking off her fingers. “Lemon, maybe?”

I spot a tin of Earl Grey tea and some dried lavender. “London Fog?”

“More like London smog,” she says.

“I need one more.”

“Vanilla bean,” she says. “Never fails.”

I grab all the ingredients and head back to the counter. “I want to spice it up.”

Trixie rolls her eyes. “Add spices, then.”

Just as I start to sift the flour, Ebb walks in. She looks the same as ever—thatch of chin-length blond hair, tinged with grey nowadays, ruddy complexion, burning bright blue eyes. “Hiya, gu--” She stops halfway to heave a mighty yawn.

“Morning, Ebb,” Trixie says, smirking. “When’s the last time you were up this early?”

Ebb hangs up her coat and nods towards me. “When I had his job. Way back when.” Her eyebrows knit together, but the crease smooths out a moment later as she takes in the growing array of pies. “Big day, huh?”

She looks a little overwhelmed, so I reach out to her. I meant to pat her shoulder or something, but she hooks an arm around me and pulls me into a crushing hug. We’re nearly the same height, and Ebb is good for hugging—she’s broad and solid and warm.

“Congratulations, Ebb,” I say. 

She swipes at her eyes after I pull away. “I didn’t do anything,” she says. “This was you and Trixie.”

“Oh, come off it,” Trixie says from the other side of the kitchen.

“She’s right. I wouldn’t even know how to bake if it wasn’t for you,” I tell her.

“Don’t get humble on us, Simon,” Trixie says. “You have a gift. You’re like a superhero in the kitchen.”

Ebb hides her laugh behind a cough. “He’s a superhero, all right.”

I shoot her a glare, then change the subject. “I’m getting back to the scones,” I say, striding over to my counter. “What do we still need to do?”

“Country bread,” Ebb says, looking around. I can see her mentally counting up the pies and cataloguing the different types of baked goods we have ready. The sourdough’s done, but our specialty loaves are still proofing from earlier this morning. “And the storefront.”

She gets started on the bread, scoring pretty designs into the top of each loaf. Once I put the scones in the oven, I practically sprint out to the front—it’s two minutes to seven—and make a ruckus pulling the chairs down. I refill the milk, restock the napkins, and take a running leap over the counter just as the bell over the door rings.

Stupid Niall and his stupid punctuality.

I’ve inadvertently done a superhero landing, three touchpoints on the floor, and I hastily straighten up and adjust my apron.

We start off slow, but by mid-morning, there’s a line wrapping around the building. I’ve accepted so many congratulations with a gracious smile that my cheeks hurt. My phone’s buzzing off the hook with people tagging the bakery in their Instagram stories.

Trixie’s on her fourth cup of coffee and has flat-out refused to handle the register—I think she might be napping in the pantry. I think I’ll be fine in an interview, if it comes to that. I’ve done news spots as Blade before; it can’t be that different.

Except at noon, I nearly make a mad dash for the kitchen and wake Trixie up. Because into the bakery just walked the person I’m dreading the most.

Shepard, my least favourite newscaster. 

And his cameraman, Zia.

I have the ridiculous urge to run and hide from them before I realise I’m not in costume. I stand my ground, counting my heartbeats as they approach the counter.

Shepard sticks out his hand, and I attempt a nervous smile as I take it and shake. “Hi, I’m Shepard,” he says. 

“I know,” I say. His brow creases, and I catch myself.  _ Fuck.  _ Of course he doesn’t realise that we’ve met, that he’s interviewed me before. “I, uh– I’ve seen you on TV.” 

I can almost hear Penny’s voice in my mind.  _ Good save, Simon. _

“Oh, right.” He laughs a little. His teeth are very straight. “So…” He glances at my nametag. “Simon. Are you the one behind the magic here? We’d love to interview you for channel 4.”

There’s a line of customers behind him. “It’s a team effort,” I say, and then make eye contact with the next person, giving a little wave to indicate it’ll be just a minute. “Uh, listen. I can go on break in…” I glance at my watch. “Ten minutes? And do an interview? Or you can head to the back and bother my coworker…”

“We’ll wait,” he says. “In the meantime, what do you recommend?” he asks, gesturing to the glass case of baked goods.

“The scones, but I made them, so I’m a little biased,” I say.

“We’ll take two,” he says, sliding a credit card at me. It’s dark blue, emblazoned with  _ Watford News 4  _ across the top.

When the line dies down, I convince Trixie to take the register for a few minutes. (“It’s that or interviewing with Shepard…” “I’m volunteering you as tribute, Simon. You were always the braver one.”)

I dust off my apron and run a hand through my hair, probably just getting more flour in it, as I approach Shepard’s setup in the corner. I try not to let my resignation show in my stance. “Is here okay, or do you need somewhere quieter?” I ask.

“Here’s good. Have you ever done an interview before?” 

“No,” I lie.

Not like this. Not with my face in it...

“It’s easy,” he claims. “I’ll guide you, so just answer the questions. If you get stuck, just smile. Ready?” 

Zia hefts the camera. I’ve never heard him say a word besides, “3, 2, 1… Rolling.” Which he does now.

Shepard sidles up next to me with a microphone and a winning smile. “Good mooooorning, Watford! If you’re not watching live today, I don’t blame you—it seems like half the city is here at Watford Bakery. And for good reason. This small, independently owned bakery has just been given a five-star national review in BBC  _ Good Food  _ magazine. So I’m sure you’re all wondering, what’s their secret? I’m here with Simon Snow, the manager of Watford Bakery, to find out.”

I give the camera my best attempt at a friendly smile. There’s sweat running down the side of my face, and I resist the urge to wipe it. “Thanks for having me, Shepard.”

“Hey, you’re a natural! You sure you’ve never done this before?”

I laugh nervously. “Nope. Though I do talk to customers all day—it’s good practice.”

“I’m sure it is, and it looks like you guys are always pretty busy as well. Like today–” Shepard pauses as Zia pans the camera around the shop, zooming in on the line leading out the door. “Have you ever been this crowded?”

“Sometimes around Christmas. We sell a  _ Bûche de Noël.” _ I’m sure I’ve butchered the pronunciation. “That’s a Yule Log. They’re quite popular.”

“So that’s one of your specials,” Shepard says. “Who makes those?”

“I do the cake,” I say. “Trixie frosts them—she’s got a better eye for detail.”

“Do you guys tag team all the baked goods?”

_ Well, I’m the manager, but she’s the one always bossing me around,  _ I almost say. “Pretty much. She’s the morning baker, so she handles the bread and laminated pastries. I come in around six and make the scones, muffins, and cookies.”

“Right, the famous scones,” Shepard says, raising both eyebrows. “One of the items highlighted in the BBC article was your sour cherry scones. Haven’t tried them myself, but the vanilla chai one I just ate was delicious. ‘Uniquely divine’ were the words used in the article, if I remember correctly. So, as the scone baker, maybe you can tell us, Simon—what’s the secret?”

“There’s no secret,” I laugh. “Just practice, trial and error.”

_ Fuck,  _ I think I’ve used that line in an interview as The Golden Blade, when he asked about my fighting technique. I try to school my mannerisms, make sure I’m not showing any of the same nervous tics I do as Blade.

“Well, I’m sure if you ever posted the recipe, it would go viral,” Shepard says. He gestures for Zia to pan around the shop again as he says, “So let’s talk about what else makes Watford Bakery special. Why this small shop, out of all the bakeries in the city?”

“Er…”

“It’s alright,” he says smoothly, waving a hand. “I’ve got notes. Let’s start with Friday Pie Day.” Zia zooms in on the pies in the display case. “You do this every week?”

“Yeah,” I say. “We started it last year—we used to have slow Fridays in the shop, not sure why.”

Personally, I liked it. Vampire always likes to attack on Thursdays or Fridays. (I suppose he has a day job, too? Or maybe he just floats around in his lair all day, draped in black silk.) It gave me some time to mentally prepare myself. Or to warm up by hauling sacks of flour around.

“And you make different flavours every week?” he says. He quickly rattles off the list of flavours I wrote on the chalkboard above the register. 

I tell him about the spreadsheet and our brainstorming process. “It’s pretty random, honestly… I make the savoury pies, and Trixie makes the sweet ones.”

“It must… occu-pie the whole day,” he says cheekily. I roll my eyes. “So how long have you worked here?”

“Three years,” I say. “I started as a part-time morning baker and cashier in uni, and then stayed on once I graduated and was promoted to manager.”

“Wow, you’ve done it all,” he says. “You’re like a superhero!”

Oh my fucking god. If one more person makes a superhero reference today I’m going to lose it. Does everyone just  _ know?  _ Am I worse at hiding this than I thought? “Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

“What do you do during your time off, Simon? Any hobbies?”

_ Yeah, saving the city.  _ Fucking hell. “I… uh, I work out a lot,” I finally say.

“That explains why you’re so jacked,” Shepard says with a laugh. “I was gonna roll with the superhero theory…”

Jesus fucking Christ. He’s onto me. For a second, I genuinely consider dunking my face into a sack of flour and suffocating to death. 

“Definitely not,” I say, hoping we can move on from the subject.

He wants to talk about Ebb next. “So this bakery was founded almost twenty years ago,” he says. “By Ebeneza Petty and her brother. She still works here, right?”

“Ebb’s the owner,” I say. “She comes in every day. Still bakes, too… in fact, she’s the one who taught me how to bake.”

“And do you know anything about her brother?”

“He’s, ah…” I probably shouldn’t say anything, and I sincerely hope he doesn’t ask Ebb about it if he interviews her—she’ll turn into a blubbering mess. I go for the joke instead. “Well, our sourdough starter is named after him,” I say with a laugh. 

“So it’s just you, Ebb, and Trixie, right?”

“Yep.”

“You guys seem close-knit,” he observes. “Like a little family.”

I smile again. For once, I don’t have to put on an act. “Yeah. We are.”

“And… cut,” Zia says.

“Great!” Shepard claps his hands together, then pats me on the back. “Well done, Simon.”

“Was I fine, then?”

“Yeah, piece of cake,” he says. I groan at the joke. “You’re so humble, man. You know, you remind me of someone else I’ve interviewed…”

_ Don’t say it. _

“Uh, who?”

“The Golden Blade,” he says casually, as if my blood isn’t running cold. Does he  _ know…? _ “You a big fan? You guys have, like, the same speech patterns.”

Fucking hell.

I rub the back of my neck. “I, uh, yeah, I’m in a fan club…” My voice is too high-pitched. 

Before I can change the subject, Shepard perks up. “Really? Me too! Are you in the Facebook group? I don’t think I’ve seen you on there.”

“Uh, no, it’s probably a different one.”

“If you’re a fan, you should check out my podcast,” he says excitedly.  _ I’ve literally been  _ on _ your podcast, Shepard.  _ “I had Blade on to talk about the Goblin Gang like two weeks ago.”

I’m going to scream. 

“Yep, will do!” I say brightly, and then start walking so he won’t say any more. “So, can’t wait to see the interview on TV. Do you want a tour of the kitchens…”

Shepard’s eyes light up.  _ “Could _ we? Isn’t there a health code against that or something?”

“You have to wear a hair net.”

“Fun,” he says, and I laugh. I gesture to the back and let them loose on Trixie and Ebb, breathing a sigh of relief that it’s over.

I’m walking back to the register when I get a text from Penny:  **Saw your news spot. You’re very confident for a baker who’s never done an interview on tv before**

I roll my eyes and send,  **Shut up**

**Just saying…** is her response.  **It’s almost like you’ve had practice!**

**I’m worried Shepard recognised me,** I type back.

**You’ll find out tonight,** she says. 

What?

I serve the customers who are waiting and pose for more photos, then when the line dies down, dip outside and call her. “Hey. What do you mean, tonight?”

“I was charging up your car—you forgot, again, where would you be without me, really?—and there was an encrypted message on it.”

“Maybe I’d remember if it took petrol like a  _ normal car– _ Wait, on it?”

“You know, the smart computer interface that you never use.”

“Because it’s  _ creepy  _ and  _ dangerous.” _

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Anyway, I decrypted it. I couldn’t verify it’s from Vampire, but it’s signed from him…”

“What does it say?”

“It says he’s planning to rob a bank downtown around midnight.”

“Why the fuck would he tell me that?”

“I don’t know!”

I roll my eyes. “Well, it sounds like a wild goose chase. If you’re going to rob a bank, you don’t go and inform your nemesis in advance.”

“Vampire wouldn’t need to rob a bank anyway,” she muses. “He’s rich, isn’t he?”

“Well, maybe he gets his money from robbing banks!”

“Hm. You’re right,” she says.

“It’s probably a trap.”

“Probably. So are you going to go?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Yeah, I guess. If he actually robs a bank right under my nose, I’ll never forgive myself…”

“I don’t think he’s going to rob a bank.”

“It’s a trap,” I agree.

“Right.” She’s quiet for a minute. “Well, I’ll get your suit ready, if you’re up for it. I know you’ve still got a long day ahead.”

“Yeah, this might not end well. It’s only ten and I’m already knackered. My cheeks hurt from smiling too hard.”

She laughs. “Luckily you won’t have to smile around Vampire. And you can take a nap tonight.”

“You know I don’t nap.” I never can, not when I’m pumped up on adrenaline with the promise of seeing Vampire. The anticipatory thrill of a fight.

I hear the smile in her voice. “I don’t know how to help you, Si. Take care of yourself.”

“Does hiding from the press count as self-care?”

“Absolutely,” she says.

The rest of the day goes as pleasantly as it can. I don’t end up having to do any more interviews. And when I treat the line of customers like a challenge, like some sort of heroic objective, it gets a little easier.

In fact, by the end of the day I’m riding a high from the positive attention. The original blogger stopped by to say hello and brought us a few bottles of champagne, which we popped in the kitchen after closing time. 

So now I’m tipsy and happy and I have to fight Vampire in three hours. It’ll be a miracle if I don’t fall asleep mid-punch. I’m at Penny’s place, and she’s trying to psych me up for the confrontation but I keep collapsing onto the couch, giggling.

It’s better by the time we ride out to meet my nemesis. I keep slapping my own cheeks because they still ache from smiling all day. Penny’s chewing her nails down to stubs with worry. “I’ll be fine,” I assure her. “Seriously.”

“You’re  _ giddy,”  _ she says.

“I feel like I won Star Baker,” I say. “Today was… it was a lot. Overwhelming. But good, too.”

“Okay,” she schools. “Channel this energy away from baking, and into your fists.” She lays a hand on top of mine on the gearshift. “Pummel Vampire with positivity. Whatever.”

I grin. And then stretch out my jaw again, because it  _ hurts.  _ “I’ll roast him. Get it?”

“Batter him up,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“He’ll prepare to meet his  _ baker.” _

“Please don’t say that to him.”

“Another one bites the crust.”

“Simon…”

“I’m bready to go.”

“Stop the car, I’m getting out,” she laughs.

“Aw, don’t be so stale.”

We pull up to the bank, and I see Vampire, hovering above the building. His cape billows behind him, and he floats lazily, gracefully as always. It’s like he has a magnetic pull—I can never take my eyes off him. (It’s a handy habit, in battle.)

It’s been one hell of day. But if I can work in food service and come out unscathed, I can do this. Manning that till is more heroic than anything I do out here. 

I conquered the line. I conquered the press. I can conquer Vampire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I wrote this before Great Watford Bake Off lol, the Star Baker thing is a coincidence. Though if you are interested in a GBBO AU, check it out here: [The Great Watford Bake Off](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26252512) \- a fic/art collab with [subpar-selkie](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/subpar-selkie) and currently a WIP updating weekly!


	3. Quiche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hee hee soft Snowbaz. Pining, oblivious Simon. Oh, and quiche.
> 
> Recipe at the end of the chapter.
> 
> Takes place both before and during/after the events of HFH.

**August**

After the morning rush quiets down, I start the mini quiches for the afternoon.

Quiche is easy, and we used to use a standard recipe off the internet. But that was before I moved in with Baz and found his magical recipe book. Only a few pages are filled, most of them in neat, blocky print that isn’t his handwriting. But one page caught my eye, because it was written in a different script… and entirely in French. It was a photocopy, actually, and someone had glued it to one of the pages. I had to use Google Translate, but eventually I managed to puzzle it out and copy it down in English.

 _Natasha,_ someone had scrawled in the margins, _C’est une vieille recette que je tiens de ma mamie._

_Natasha, this is an old family recipe that I got from my mamie._

I don’t think Baz has any French family, and when I asked him if he knows anyone named Natasha, he just brushed me off.

 _Mamie_ means grandmother, and I totally trust grandmothers. We use that quiche recipe now. It’s much better than the old one.

I start with the crust, setting a bowl on the scale and adding flour, salt, and olive oil. Pulling on gloves, I knead with my hands until it forms a smooth, soft dough. I set it to the side and get to work on the filling, cracking several eggs into a second bowl. A cup of crème fraiche, freshly grated emmental, salt and pepper, and some herbs for a pop of colour. 

I remember the moment I started being able to bake from memory. It used to daunt me, the idea of not having a recipe. Then, one day, I was making scones, and I measured all the ingredients intuitively. Just like that.

It feels nice, now, to be able to just bake. I let my mind wander as I work on autopilot, which on second thought might not be a good idea. Recently, my thoughts have been mostly centered around my new flatmate.

Penny says I’m being ridiculous, but I swear something is off about him. He wears so much black and often disappears for hours at a time. He hates popular music and doesn’t even eat anything I bake. (Blasphemous, I know.) He was nice enough when we first met, but now that I live there he barely speaks to me. 

I was kind of a mess when I moved in, dealing with the aftermath of a busy summer. I remember him arching a judgmental eyebrow at my two suitcases—probably wondering why I had so few possessions. Something shiny and gold peeked out of one, and I remember blustering and panicking, telling him that the entire suitcase was full of baking supplies. So now he probably thinks I have no life except for baking. 

(It’s almost true—Penny likes to say that my main personality trait is my unflagging love for scones.)

And to make matters worse, Agatha had just broken up with me, and dropped off all the stuff I left at her place in a _literal trash bag._ Who does that? I remember Baz smirking with sadistic amusement when he saw me dragging it up the stairs.

I slide the quiches into the oven and start cleaning up my workspace. I tell Baz almost every week that he should stop by sometime. If he does, maybe he can tell me whose recipe it is. I’ll even give him a quiche on the house.

Knowing him, he’ll just roll his eyes and refuse to eat it like he does with all my baked goods. Posh tosser.

* * *

**January**

I pull the quiches out of the oven and transfer them onto a rack to cool. It’s late afternoon, around the time Baz finishes class and usually stops by for a coffee. (And a scone, cheerily force-fed to him by yours truly.) Today I have a different idea, though. 

I had been flicking through the recipe book last night and landed on the quiche recipe again. He wasn’t home, so I thought I’d find out this afternoon. He regularly devours anything I bake nowadays, so it shouldn’t be an issue.

As I’m stacking the now-cool quiches in the glass window, the bell tinkles and I look up.

It’s Baz, of course. His face is red from the cold and his hair is all lovely and windblown and dusted with snow. I glance out the door; I hadn’t even realised it was snowing. He pulls off his gloves in a smooth motion and carefully unwinds his scarf.

“Hi, love,” he says as he steps up to the counter. (So he’s in a good mood, then. Sometimes he just rushes in and says, “Coffee. Now.”)

“Hi,” I say, and pull out a quiche for him. “Presentation went well, then?”

He shrugs. He picked that up from me. “It was fine.” 

I hand him his coffee and quiche, and he looks at me curiously. 

“I’ve been meaning to have you try one for a while,” I explain. “They’re, ah… from your recipe book. The one in French?”

Baz stares at the quiche again and takes a deep breath for some reason. “I don’t really want quiche,” he finally says. 

“Just try it,” I press. “They’re amazing. And you like eggs and cheese and all that. Whose recipe is it, anyway?”

He doesn’t answer, just stares at the quiche like it’s personally wronged him. He looks almost upset, so I come around the counter and lead him to a booth, sitting down next to him. “What is it?” I ask.

He clears his throat. “I’ll try it,” he says hesitantly. I don’t know why he’s being so serious about quiche. He actually does look upset now, and I wonder if he just really, really hates quiche.

No. If he hated it he’d snap at me, not act all mopey.

I watch him cut a piece and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly. I’m watching him so intently that even when he looks away, attempting to hide it, it’s impossible to miss—his eyes are wet. 

Jesus, are the quiches that bad?

Baz knits his dark eyebrows together, then takes another bite. He won’t look at me, but he’s all misty-eyed, and I don’t think it’s because of the flavour. 

I reach over and put my hand on his. “Baz,” I say.

He doesn’t look up, so I just squeeze his hand.

“Whose recipe is it?” I ask.

He sets down his fork. “My mother’s,” he nearly whispers. 

Oh.

He swallows. “A close friend of hers passed it on. She used to make this all the time when I was young.”

“I…” I don’t know what to say. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have used it--”

“No,” he says with feeling, finally looking up. “Simon, it’s… it’s perfect. It tastes just like hers.” He laughs wetly when I beam a little, and squeezes my hand back. “Thank you.”

* * *

**Quiche Recipe**

**Ingredients**

For the crust:

  * 250g all-purpose flour
  * 100g water
  * 100g olive oil
  * Salt 



For the filling:

  * 4 eggs
  * 500 mL milk
  * 150 mL creme fraiche
  * 250 g shredded emmental cheese (or swiss or gruyere, or a mixture)
  * Salt and pepper to taste
  * Optional: 250g lardons
  * Optional: pinch of nutmeg, or herbs like basil, rosemary, or dill



**Directions**

  1. Preheat the oven to 400ºF / 200º C.
  2. Combine the flour and salt in a bowl, then add the water and olive oil and mix/knead until it forms a smooth dough. Roll it out until it forms a sheet.
  3. Line a pie tin (I use a glass one) with the crust, making sure to press down into the corners. Make sure the crust the grooves on the sides up to the top of the tin. Poke holes all around the bottom of the crust with a fork.
  4. Mix together the ingredients for the filling.
  5. If using lardons, saute them in a pan, then sprinkle them onto the crust.
  6. Pour the filling into the pie tin until it reaches the top.
  7. Bake for 30-45 minutes, or until the top of the quiche and the crust turn golden brown. Enjoy!



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This didn't make it into HFH because I was just getting way too into the quiche-making, but seriously this quiche is incredible. It's a family recipe from my best friend, who's French.


	4. "the handcuffs scene"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I probably hyped this up too much, I'm so sorry... anyway by popular demand here is the handcuffs scene lol
> 
> This is alluded to in Chapter 16 of [Holding Out For a Hero,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23503759/chapters/57555028) and takes place sometime between Chapter 7 and 11.

**Simon**

He dangles something in the air, and I stop breathing. 

I carry handcuffs with me, because I’m supposed to bring Vampire in alive and turn him into the police if I manage to capture him. 

Baz is holding the handcuffs, and I can’t breathe. 

According to him, I manage a bakery. I don’t fight crime and I definitely have no reason to own handcuffs. I force myself to look at him. 

“Why do you have these?” he asks. At least he has the decency to look a little concerned.

“I, uh...” This is going to require some quick thinking. Handcuffs, why else would I hypothetically use handcuffs? 

Oh. Right. Oh god. 

I’d rather embarrass myself than blow my cover, and he’s staring at me, waiting, and oh god this is going to haunt me forever-

“They’re... from when, um, Agatha and I were, um, together?” My voice keeps pitching higher, and Baz’s eyes widen. “She was, um, into, uh, some... stuff. Yeah.”

That might be the most unintelligible sentence I’ve ever uttered. I’m shit at lying, and he can probably tell. I think I might spontaneously combust, or smash something, or scream.

What I don’t expect is to see a deep flush working its way up Baz’s cheeks. 

It suits him.

I think I’m gaping, but I’m frozen to the spot. We’re still making eye contact, and for some reason I can’t break the moment. I think I’ll make it worse if I say anything else.

He’s still looking into my eyes when he says evenly, “Nothing to be ashamed of, Snow.” Then one corner of his mouth ticks up in a smirk, and he stands up, drops the handcuffs on the table with a neat clink, and walks away.


End file.
